


Herd, Pride, Pack

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-06-25
Packaged: 2017-11-08 13:37:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the exiled boy-king takes refuge in Braavos, Arya Stark comes to see him from time to time, at the behest of her sister.  And on one such visit, she arrives bearing a very welcome gift.  Older!Tommen and Older!Arya.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Herd, Pride, Pack

"This is too small for your hand- can't you see that?  It's a child's toy.  You'll never get a good grip on this handle."

Tommen blushes and nods as Arya turns away and rummages through her weapon case.  She's right about the sword; he's had it since he boarded the ship to Braavos all those months ago, and he's shot up several inches since then, with the size of his hands keeping pace.

While she's bent over, he indulges himself in a brief stare at her small but shapely rear end, but he quickly looks away; should she ever catch him, she'd undoubtedly be furious, and then she might never come back again.  

(She tells the former king that she comes to see him in his exile at Sansa's request, but the frequency of her visits plants a seed of hope in Tommen's brain that she might have other reasons as well...)

Arya stands upright and pivots to face him, and Tommen releases a gasp of surprise; she holds a beautiful sword made in the Braavosi fashion, with a narrow blade and a sturdy hilt.  It's too long, the handle too wide for tiny Arya and her tiny hands-

"I had it made for you.”

Tommen blushes again, and Arya rolls her eyes. But she continues to hold the blade toward him.  He reaches out to take it, and a prickling of goosepimples appears on his wrist when his fingers brush over Arya’s calloused ones.  

“Thank you, my la-”  Arya’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Tommen quickly corrects himself, “- Arya.”

“Well, I thought it was time you learned to wield a real blade.”   

Tommen smiles as he tightens his hand around the hilt.  And he finds that he does not feel like a silly child playing at knights, but like a man, a warrior, strong and fierce as his father.

(Either of his “fathers”, really- but it hurts his head to dwell on that for too long.)

“You’re holding it wrong.”  

Before he can open his mouth to ask, Arya steps around him and stands behind to adjust his grip and his posture.  He never ceases to be surprised at the firmness of her grasp, the surety of her movements.  She’s such a slight creature- her forehead barely reaches his shoulder- but Tommen has no doubt that, if she wished it, she could drop him to the floor and pin him in place.  

He’s imagined it from time to time, in the darkness of his bedchamber.  As he slips his hand past the waist of his smallclothes and strokes himself, Tommen pictures Arya straddling him, her grey eyes flashing with challenge and energy and _fire._...

But then he’ll fall asleep, and his dreams are of a softer nature.  He dreams of taking her narrow face in his hands and telling her of how he’s noticed her, always.  When she’d run off to train with her “dancing” master, when she’d prowl the corridors of King’s Landing in search of stray cats, when she’d quarrel with her sister and pull horrible faces behind Joffrey’s back, Tommen would watch her with quiet admiration.  He’d never met anyone like her, this wild northern wolf-girl, and he’d been very sad when she vanished from King’s Landing (although a part of him had been happy that she’d be spared everything that came after Joffrey’s coronation).  

And then he would tell her the most secret part of all.  After that afternoon on the kingsroad, when Joffrey had accused Arya of attacking him, Tommen would fantasize about coming to her rescue.  He would save her and save Sansa’s poor direwolf, and then he and Arya and the wolves would flee to the forest and run together for the rest of their days.

(Never mind that lions and wolves never occupy the same forests, never mind that wolves prey on stags.)

But even in Tommen’s dreams, Arya would twist her lips and scoff at that notion. _I don’t need to be saved,_ she would snarl, and there’d be the fire in her eyes, the glint of sun on steel, and he’d feel that peculiar burning in his blood once again...

He snaps back to reality and realizes that Arya has finished; she stands before him now, but her eyes are not on his sword hand.  A flush of crimson, far brighter than any before, floods his face and creeps down his neck when he follows her gaze down to where he’s hard in his breeches.

Tommen begins to stammer out an apology, but Arya quickly closes the distance between them and cups him through the fabric.  The words die on his tongue, and he gives a sharp inhale of breath at the sudden and intensely-pleasurable contact.

“You’re always apologizing,” Arya hisses in his ear as her little hand moves expertly up and down.  “Stop it.  You’re a man grown now, aren’t you?”

She slips a narrow arm around his waist and presses her forehead to his shoulder.  And then a loud clang as his sword falls to the ground.  Tommen places his hands on the small of her back and lowers his head to breathe in the aroma of her hair- it’s leather and spices and wildness and freedom.  

Her fingers begin to tug at the laces of his breeches, and when she dips her hand in and rubs her thumb over the head of his cock, he releases a low moan.  And she laughs- not a mocking sound, but something light and pretty and very nearly girlish.  

He lifts a hand to cup her chin and tilt her face up.  When he leans down, Arya pulls back, a stubborn furrow forming in her brow as she resists.

Tommen does not force her closer, but he says in a half-whisper and half-sob- “Oh, please, Arya.”

She pauses for a quiet, eternal moment before nodding.  And then it’s his mouth on hers, her warm body pressed to his, her hand still stroking him, the fragrance of her hair...

And when he closes his eyes, he imagines them not in Braavos, but in a wood somewhere, a beautiful green forest with tall trees and thick brush.  And as they stand together in a clearing, a bed of pine needles beneath them and a clear blue sky above, they hear the footfalls of stags and lions and wolves, all running together as one herd, one pride, one pack.  


End file.
